


La Vie en Rose

by ziammehome



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziammehome/pseuds/ziammehome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One where Zayn and Liam were born a century apart but fall in love anyway, a wounded WW1 soldier and a struggling author in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I am currently working on this entire piece and will repost it as a oneshot. I'm not deleting this for people who have it bookmarked, but it should be up as an entire work in a few weeks time - 11/12/13
> 
> This is based loosely on the move Midnight in Paris, which I do not own :)

Zayn was frustrated, downing the last of his fifth cup of coffee and staring ahead at the blank screen. It was late, the only light in his small apartment coming from the laptop in front of him. This had been happening more and more lately, Zayn waking up in the middle of the night, roused from sleep by something he couldn't quite grasp. It tugged at his eyelids, pulling him from his bed, tingling in his fingertips. But then when he sat down to write - nothing. The words wouldn't come. The rest of the night usually passed sleeplessly, unable to let go of whatever it was he was looking for, whatever it was that kept waking up up, night after night. He knew the lack of sleep was taking its toll, one could only live on coffee and cigarettes for so long without starting to see the rough around the edges. But he was frustrated to no end with his writing - or lack thereof - and the sleepless nights were of no help. It had been weeks now with almost no new progress on his book, and several angry emails from his editor were sitting untouched in his inbox. 

He ran his hands through his hair and got up from his seat, padding over to the window in boxers and a t shirt. He lit a smoke and sat on the window sill, opening the shutters and revealing the lights of the city below. His apartment wasn't much, a kitchenette, a lumpy bed, a too small shower with a pathetic supply of hot water. But the view was really something. He sat here often, the wide window thrown open, taking in the city at every time of day. He normally preferred the privacy of closed shutters, but something about sitting up here felt personal, like the whole city was laid out just for him. He had thought moving to Paris might help with his writing, getting away from England for a while, and in a city like Paris no less. It had felt so right at the time, like something was bringing him here, to a city he had never visited but felt an unrelenting desire for. It should have been an artistic mecca, but all it had brought Zayn was insomnia and and an affinity for chocolate croissants. He took long walks during the day, stopping in cafes and used bookstores and feeling inspiration just around the corner, hidden between cobblestone alleys and stone-walled churches. But every time he returned to his computer, fresh air still clinging to his fingertips, nothing came. 

But he loved the city nonetheless. He loved it like this, spread out below him in a series of lights and sounds. Even at this late hour, still awake, still breathing. He could see cars moving on the roads beneath him, hear the distant laughter of couples walking in the night. He sighed, resigned to another night of no sleep and no work. He suddenly felt stifled in his flat. Both his bed and his desk were unwelcoming, and the fresh air from the window suddenly didn't feel like enough to fill his lungs. He stumbled through the dark flat, pulling on dark jeans and a sweater, grabbing a fresh pack of cigs and tucking them into his back pocket. He closed the door quietly behind him, not wanting to wake up the cranky old woman who lived next to him and apparently spoke no English, an unfortunate fact Zayn discovered when the apartment water went out a few weeks ago. He crept down the stairs silently, finally emerging into the night air outside. He took deep breaths, drinking in the coolness of the night after spending too many hours in the dark stuffiness of his flat. The moon was high and full above him, illuminating the streets as Zayn walked. He wandered aimlessly, past the striped canopies of grocers and the glass windows of coffee shops, unopened and sleeping at this late hour. 

He soon found himself crossing the seine, the Eiffel tower looming in front of him, its peak reaching up into the cloudless sky. He walked towards its steel frame. It was currently dark but he knew it would be illuminated with twinkling lights every so often throughout the night. He was almost underneath it when the lights started up. As many times as Zayn had seen this before, he always liked it, especially from beneath the tower. He could see the lights through the criss-cross of metal bars, almost looking like stars against the night sky. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool metal of the tower's base. He was tired, in a way that went deeper than a few nights without sleep. He rested there for a moment, letting the chill of the metal seep into his bones, enjoying the biting sensation. He reluctantly opened his eyes after a few brief moments. The lights had turned off again. He pulled himself away from his spot leaning against the tower and began walking again, continuing further away from his apartment and into the night. 

But something felt different as he walked. There was a park to his right where he could have sworn there was a shopping center before, and the lights lining the street seemed different, glowing softer and more yellow than the streetlamps he was familiar with. He stopped and looked around, thoroughly confused. He knew he wasn't drunk, and he couldn't be that strung out on caffeine, could he? He attributed it to lack of sleep and continued on, but grew even more puzzled when he heard a loud honk behind him. He turned to find a Rolls Royce speeding past him down the street. It was the kind of car you would see at an auto show, or in the background of an old film, not roaming the streets of Paris late at night. He gazed after the car in disbelief as it rounded a corner, the people inside cheering loudly as it went. It occurred to him that he must look like an idiot right now, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the street. He shook his head and quickly crossed to the sidewalk, just in time to avoid the path of yet another car, just as over the top and ridiculous looking as the first. Maybe there was some sort of car show, he wondered to himself, trying to understand his baffling circumstances. He could hear music in the distance, and he came upon what looked like a club. He could see dim lights and people in the interior, and above the door an illuminated sign read "La Vie en Rose." He knew he had walked this way before, yet this was the first time he had ever seen such a place. But nothing was making sense anymore, he reasoned with himself, and he warily entered the club in hopes that some of his questions might be answered.

The room was crowded, and it took a moment for Zayn's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and heavy smoke filling the air. There were people dancing, some keeping up with the lively music, others just swaying, pressed close together on the dance floor. The music sounded old fashioned, jazz filled with soft trumpets and driving rhythms, and a singer's soothing voice crooning along with the melody. Zayn moved in further, and his eyes were drawn to the appearances of the people in the crowd. The men were all in suits or rolled up shirtsleeves, and the women. Oh wow, the women. They were all in skirts and dresses, adorned with beads and feathers and long necklaces. He saw carefully waved hair and bright red lipstick, reminiscent of a bygone era. Zayn wondered if he had stumbled upon some sort of terrible theme party, but another, more impossible explanation was working its way into his mind. The cars, the lights, the clothes, the music. It all added up to things he had seen in movies and photos and Fitzgerald novels. It couldn't be, could it? 

A girl appeared in front of him, all jangling beads and blond curls and a wide smile. "Looking for a dancing partner?," she asked, pressing close with a wink. Zayn looked down at her in surprise, bringing his mind back to focus. "This is going to sound quite silly," he said, embarrassed at what he was about to ask, "but what year is it?" The girl snorted, "You must be drunker than you look, darling," she answered sarcastically, but Zayn just shook it off. "Just...tell me?" he said, desperately. She was eyeing him oddly now. "Why, its 1923, of course!" she said warily. Zayn froze. 19.....no. It couldn't be. His mind exploded into explanations of how he could have left his apartment in 2013 and wound up in some club in 1923. He would have to be be dreaming. Or losing his mind? He wouldn't be too surprised about the latter, he'd been driving himself half mad nowadays anyway. Without further acknowledgment from Zayn, the girl huffed away haughtily, most likely off to seek a more willing and less peculiar dancing partner. 

His eyes traveled to the bar at the end of the room. Even if he was dreaming, or psychotic, or, he shuddered at the thought, actually somehow in 1923, he might as well get drunk while he's at it. Who knows, maybe it would help him make sense of this whole damn mess. He pushed his way through the crowd, warm bodies pressing against his in the smoky haze as he made his way across the room. "Scotch, on the rocks," he said to the bartender when he arrived, taking a seat at a stool resignedly. He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, desperately in need of the familiar numb. He fumbled with a cig and his hands shook as he searched through his pockets, only to find he'd left his lighter back home. Wherever, or whenever, home was. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath, the until cigarette still between his teeth.

Moments later, he heard the sound of a match being struck beside him, and someone was reaching over to light the cigarette in Zayn's mouth. He let it light, taking a long drag before letting his gaze travel from the hand with the match to the person it belonged to. There was a man standing next to him, shaking out the match and tossing it into the ashtray at the bar. He was tall and lean, wearing a flecked grey suit. Zayn's eyes traveled over him, taking in the black tie, the neatly combed brown hair and the strong looking hands. He looked rather dashing, Zayn had to admit, like an old movie star or the hero in a Hemingway novel. "Thanks," Zayn murmured after a long moment, his eyes meeting the stranger's. "No problem at all," the man said with a smile. "I don't mean to be rude, but I heard you ordering your drink and recognized your accent," he continued, "its always nice to meet a fellow Brit." He said charmingly, his words carrying the careful cadence of centuries past. "I'm Liam Payne," he offered, extending his hand to Zayn. "Zayn Malik," he answered, switching his cigarette to the other hand in order to shake Liam's. Their hands lingered on eachother's for a long moment until Zayn's drink was placed in front of him. He quickly pulled his hand away and took a long sip, relishing the burn as it went down his throat. After a quick glance of permission and a nod from Zayn, Liam took a seat at the stool next to Zayn's, his own drink in his hand.

"I don't believe I've seen you around here before," Liam continued, and Zayn shook his head. "This is my first time, I'm not usually around here," he said, and it seemed funny to him how very true those words were, if only Liam knew the extent of it. "Are you new to Paris then?" Liam asked, and Zayn nodded, taking another sip of his drink and trying to ignore the soft pink of Liam's lips in the hazy light. "What brings you here?" Liam asks, sounding genuinely interested. "I'm a writer," Zayn offered, "I came here for...a change of scenery I guess." It was the truth, although Zayn hadn't exactly expected his scenery to change by an entire century while he was here. "Written anything I've heard of?" Liam asked charmingly. "Not yet, but maybe one day," Zayn returned, feeling a smile on his own face, Liam's easygoing demeanor rubbing off on him. Liam nodded before quickly downing the rest of his drink. "I'm afraid I've got to go, but it was lovely meeting you Zayn." Liam stood, and Zayn couldn't help but admire his broad shoulders as he pulled his jacket on. "I hope to see you around here again," Liam said with a smile. "and here," he added, leaning in to tuck the book of matches into Zayn's pocket, "in case I'm not around next time," he said more softly, close to Zayn's ear. He drew back and gave Zayn a wink before disappearing into the crowd and leaving the bar, leaving Zayn in a daze of smoke and aftershave and strong hands lighting matches.

Zayn stayed at the bar for a few more drinks, until he was stumbling out of the bar and into the chill night. Any worry he may have felt over apparently time traveling was washed away, replaced by a numb in his limbs and images of a tall man with brown hair behind his eyelids. But he was alert enough to register that he was very tired, with apparently nowhere to sleep, his own bed 90 years or so away. He settled on a cold park bench grumpily, with the idea that he would rest here for awhile, and figure out the intricacies of time travel later. 

Zayn awoke the next morning in his bed, his mind filled with images of the strange dream he had. It was all smoke and jazz and red-lipped girls, and scotch and matches and tall handsome strangers. He shook his head, climbing out of bed as the last bits of sleep faded away. He stumbled around the apartment, made breakfast and tried to write a little, his usual morning routine. It wasn't until later, when he went to get a cigarette from his discarded pants, that he found it. In his pocket, safely tucked next to his pack of cigarettes, was a small matchbook with one match missing, and the words "La Vie en rose," printed on the side in elegant script.


	2. Chapter 2

Zayn’s head spun as he stared down at the book of matches. It weighed heavy in his hand, despite its small size. It couldn’t be real, it had just been a dream. Right? There was no way he had spent last in 1923. And yet, here was the matchbook lying tangible and very real in his hand. Images flashed through his mind from the night before, of Liam slipping the matches into Zayn’s pocket, his voice a close breath in Zayn’s ear. The memory sent shivers down Zayn’s spine. He returned his attention to matches in his palm, flipping them over as he examined the book. It was made of printed paper, light blue with a grey diamond pattern. The words were printed in a curling black script, “la vie en rose.” His mind flickered to the sign hanging above the door, the name of the club. He flipped it open to find only a few matches missing, it was still nearly full. He fell backwards onto his bed, gazing up at the ceiling as he tried to process the fact that he had really time traveled, apparently without knowing he was doing it. And had really met Liam last night, who had really slipped a book of matches into his pocket.

He sat up after a moment, grabbing his laptop off of the table and returning to the bed with his computer settled in his lap. He clicked open the browser and typed “la vie en rose 1923” into the search. After sifting through a few unrelated links, Zayn came upon an article about the club. There were several black and white photos of men in suits and women in dresses, smiling broadly at the camera, or caught candidly dancing. He looked closer at the photos, examining the club in the background. He saw the familiar hanging lights, the bar at the end of the far wall. There was no mistaking it, that was the very same club he had been in the night before. He skimmed the article, reading about the club’s opening, the many glamorous events that had been held there and various celebrities who had graced it with their presence. It seemed to have been quite the hub of nightlife in Paris, famous for its grand parties and lively crowd. He was stopped short when he reached the end of the article, informing him that the club had eventually been sold, and was closed down in 1949. His eyes grew wide. As if everything else hadn’t been proof enough, it was irrefutable that Zayn had been there last night, in a place that hadn’t existed for over 60 years. There was no other explanation than the fact that Zayn had somehow accidentally wound up in 1923. 

He felt suffocated in his small room, and sun streaming through the window suddenly felt impossibly hot. He decided he needed to go for a walk, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go. He dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a t shirt and checking his hair in the mirror, finding it unkempt but passable. He stopped before exiting, hesitating for a moment before reaching back to take the book of matches off the table, tucking them quickly into his back pocket. He didn’t know why, but he wanted them with him, a reminder that he wasn’t completely insane. Or that if he was, it had apparently escalated to full blown hallucinations of seemingly tangible objects. It was small comfort, but he welcomed it nonetheless. 

He wandered down the sunny streets, making sure to follow the path he had taken last night. It was a beautiful day, bringing out the brighter side of Paris. It felt so different from last night. sharply contrasting the wash of the silvery moon and the intimacy of smoky corners. It felt more open, and Zayn felt like he could breathe again, inhaling the scent of flowers and fresh air. He found himself a few minutes later on a familiar street, certain he was in the right place. It only took him a moment to locate the club, or at least where it had stood. In its place was a book store, and Zayn could see that the inside had been heavily remodeled. The sign outside was different as well, bearing a french name he couldn’t read in bold modern letters. But the facade was the same, the stone walls remaining unchanged from decades past. Zayn could almost see it as it stood last night, lit from within by dim bar lights, the sounds of music and voices carrying out the door and into the night. 

He entered the store, a bell ringing to signal his arrival as he opened the door. He glanced around the shop, taking in the wall to wall bookshelves and cozy looking chairs. He heard a throat clear across the shop, and turned to find a girl standing at the counter, looking at Zayn expectantly. “Can I help you?” she asked in a thick French accent. She looked young, maybe high school or university age, and her hair was piled thick on top of her head. “Uh, yeah,” Zayn said, crossing to the counter. “Do you know anything about what was here before? I mean, before a bookstore. There was a club here...” he asked uncertainly, sure he was sounding like a lunatic with a penchant for architectural history. She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that, sorry.” Zayn assured her that it was fine and went to depart, but before he could leave she was speaking again. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” She asked, giving Zayn a wide smile, letting the double meaning in her words sink in. Zayn felt his cheeks reddening. “No, thank you, have a nice day,” he mumbled awkwardly over his shoulder as he hastily exited the store.

Well, he thought to himself, that had been a rather useless exercise. He looked back awkwardly at the shop as he walked away, his face still flushed from the girl's advances. It wasn't that it hadn't happened before, he knew he was a good looking guy. But he had been playing hermit so long working on his book, he had become rather rubbish at social interaction, to be honest. And she definitely wasn't his type. He made his way back to his apartment through the crowded streets, watching children playing in the park and couples holding hands along the Seine. He was tired from his late night, wanting to forget about impossible things and mysterious matchbooks for a while. He flopped down on his bed as soon as he got back to his apartment, and was soon asleep despite the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. 

He woke up to the setting sun, filling his small apartment with a warm orange glow. He growled, still sleepy, and rolled onto his back, his mouth dry from hours of sleep. He reluctantly got up and filled a glass with water from the tap before remember that the water in Paris was shit for drinking. He grumpily poured it out and drank directly from the bottle in the fridge instead. He was more awake now, and it registered that he was pretty hungry, not having eaten since his scant breakfast that morning. With a lingering yawn, he turned his attention to his cupboards and began rooting through, gathering ingredients to make a simple dinner. He was no great cook, but he didn't let himself starve or anything, although from his mother's frantic phone calls you might think otherwise. He ended up with a pile of spaghetti which he ate on his bed, his attention directed towards a french reality show on the television. He only spoke enough French to catch about every third word, but it was the only channel he got reception for. He was able to gather that there was some sort of love triangle forming among the contestants, and one of the full-busted women with dark red lips gave a man in a suit a harsh slap across the cheek. He finished his food and carried his plate into the kitchen, suddenly faced with the emptiness of the moment. He watched another episode of the show, and he wasn't sure if he was proud or not that he was now familiar with all of the characters names.

It was one of those times when Zayn questioned his move to Paris, when his life, entire existence really, seemed rather pathetic. His book was shit, he didn't speak the language, and he had no friends here. His mind drifted to the night before after successfully blocking it out for a few hours. Strangers from other centuries who may or may not actually exist do not count as friends, he reminded himself harshly. But he couldn't curtail his curiosity once it started. He looked out the window at the now dark sky, the moon just beginning to wane after its fullness last night. How had it happened? If he tried, would it work again? Would Liam expect him? He wanted desperately to get the thoughts out of his head, but they came anyway, unbidden. It was worth a try, wasn't it? It might not even work, and he knew he wouldn't end up sleeping until much later anyway, if at all. He tried talking himself out of it, but he knew it was useless. He found himself getting up to dress, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness. He hesitated before grabbing an oxford out of his closet. He might as well fit in a little better this time, instead of sticking out like a sore thumb in a cardigan like he had the night before. 

Zayn felt like a prize idiot leaving his apartment, his hands shaking as he entered the cool night air. He had no idea what he was even supposed to do, how to accidentally end up in a different century. He decided the best course of action was just to repeat what he'd done last night, his feet following the same path towards the Eiffel Tower. There were a few couples loitering about when he arrived, drinking in the romance of Paris at night, cuddling on benches and kissing beneath the tower. Zayn felt awkward being there alone, without any real excuse for his presence. He leaned against the base of the tower uncomfortably, embarrassed that he though anything would happen. He promised himself he would only stay for five more minutes before going home, eating ice cream, and probably falling asleep to more terrible French television and then forgetting this whole thing ever happened. He was staring at his shoes, scuffing them quietly on the ground and trying to avoid eye contact with one of the couples that had moved closer. 

He saw lights playing on the ground and looked up to find that the tower had turned on, the twinkling lights once again illuminating the structure. From somewhere, he heard a clock tower strike midnight, twelve long chimes carrying through the quiet streets. He watched for a few more moments until the lights went off, then turned away with a sigh to walk back to his apartment. Except, when he looked down, things had changed again. He felt a small smile on his face as he looked around, making certain that it had really happened. Sure enough, he was faced with a large park and soft lights, and the sound of music carrying through the air that certainly hadn't been there before. He tried to control the trembling in his limbs as he walked through the city, still in disbelief that this was really happened. A group of people passed by him on the street, talking and laughing and confirming once again that Zayn was really in 1923. They looked like they'd just come from a party, dressed in suits and dresses that would look out of place in modern day Paris. Zayn nodded as they passed, and was met with a smile and a wink from a woman with dark red hair. He smiled back, buzzing with excitement and nerves. 

He arrived at the club a few minutes later, the words La Vie en Rose flickering above him as he entered. He noted the sharp contrast between the bookstore he had visited that morning and the way it looked now, dark and smoky and full of life. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the people dancing and drinking merrily, but he didn't see Liam, and he couldn't help but feel a flicker of disappointment. He made his way through the crowd to the bar anyway, taking a seat and ordering a drink. The bartender nodded, and Zayn turned to face the crowd while he waited. He thought about joining them, of going out onto the floor to find a partner, swaying along to the jazz and the shaking of beads and the ringing of voices. He thought about it, but he knew he wouldn't. He felt things holding him back like always, telling him that it was easier to sit, to stay, to watch instead of join. He had been this way for as long as he could remember, too shy to leave the sidelines, content to sit alone but knowing there was a part of him that wished things could be different. He sighed, and turned back around to take his drink from the bartender. 

He sat alone for a few more minutes, and was considering leaving when there was voice behind him. "I hoped I'd see you here again," he heard Liam say, and turned to find him leaning against the bar, accompanied by a shorter man in an impeccable suit. "Hello," Zayn greeted with a smile, and was met with Liam's brilliant one in return. Liam looked even better than last night, or maybe it was just Zayn, because the way Liam's shirt clung to his chest and his tie hung loost around his neck had his heart racing. They were silent for a moment, smiling at each other, before Liam came to. "Oh! How rude of me, this is my good friend Louis Tomlinson. Louis, this is Zayn." Liam said, gesturing between the two. Louis took Zayn's hand and shook it with a warm greeting, before turning to Liam to say loudly in his ear, "You were right Liam, he's simply gorgeous. A few more drinks and I might steal him away if you're not quick about it." Liam blushed scarlet but laughed, giving Louis a playful shove and throwing a wink in Zayn's direction, which may or may not have made Zayn's heart flutter. He felt himself blushing at Louis' words, smiling as the two men took their seats near Zayn. They sat like that for a while, Louis dominating the conversation with his loud voice, flirting with Zayn and with Liam and with the bartender before eventually disappearing into the crowd to dance. 

"Sorry about him," Liam offered cheerily at Louis' departure, "he's a hell of a guy, but a lot to handle sometimes." Zayn just shook his head with a laugh. "I like him," he said, finishing the rest of his drink. He wasn't quite drunk, but he was buzzing, the lights of the bar just beginning to shimmer, and his smiles at Liam becoming looser and more frequent. "Say," Liam said, leaning forward a bit, "I'm starving. Wanna get out of here and get something to eat?" Zayn wasn't very hungry, but he would have agreed no matter what, so bright was Liam's smile and his eyes shining as he looked at Zayn expectantly. "Sure, lets." Zayn agreed, and Liam disappeared quickly into the crowd to inform Louis of their departure. Zayn waited patiently at the bar, his feet tapping excitedly against the bar stool. He ran a hand nervously through his hair, hoping it had managed to maintain some semblance of style in the heat and closeness of the club. Liam returned moments later, and Zayn stood up to collect his jacket. He felt Liam press a hand to his elbow as they navigated the crowded dance floor, and Zayn thrilled at the small touch. 

They exited the club into the cool night air, and Liam turned to him as they walked. "I know just the place, a small cafe a few streets down, if that's okay with you?" he said sweetly, looking at Zayn through thick lashes. "Of course, wherever you want," Zayn said, trying not to notice the way their hands kept bumping together. Because of the short distance, they opted to walk instead of taking a cab. "It's a beautiful night," Liam said softly, and Zayn turned to find him looking up at the moon as they walked. Liam was right, it was gorgeous. "It is," Zayn agreed, directing his gaze up as well. The rest of the walk passed in silence, but it didn't feel uncomfortable. Zayn was often quiet, opting to expressing himself in writing rather than in spoken words, a fact Liam appeared to have picked up on, because he didn't press anything. They arrived at the restaurant, a small cafe lit glowing yellow from within. It looked cozy and warm and sort of perfect. Liam held the door for Zayn as they entered, and they took a seat at a small booth in the back. Zayn could feel the boldening effects of the alcohol wearing off, and he was once again nervous at Liam's presence. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, figuring that smoking inside a restaurant was probably still acceptable in 1923. "Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to the pack and raising his eyebrows at Liam. "Not at all," Liam said, shaking his head. "In fact, I may just join you," he added, and Zayn offered him a cigarette. Zayn pulled out matches to light them, and he saw Liam smile at the matchbook, obviously pleased that Zayn had kept it. 

Liam ordered food quickly, familiar with the menu already. 'So, Zayn Malik," he said teasingly, blowing smoke out of his mouth, "I know next to nothing about you, except that you're a writer. You're quite mysterious." he added cheekily. "Is that a good thing?" Zayn asked, raising an eyebrow and giving Liam a smirk. "Of course, darling, very intriguing," Liam returned, and his smile had Zayn melting inside. He looked incredible with that cigarette in his hand, and Zayn was mesmerized by the smoke pouring out of his soft pink lips. Or they looked soft, at least, Zayn thought to himself, wondering if he would get a chance to find out. "What's your book about?" Liam asked more seriously, seeming genuinely interested. The restaurant was nearly empty, and their booth was settled close in a corner. It felt intimate, the way Liam was leaning into him as he spoke. "Not much, yet," Zayn admitted, shyly. "But a lot of things, I suppose. Life, love, loss..." He trailed off quietly, unused to discussing his book with people other than his editor. "All the big ones," Liam answered with a smirk, and Zayn nodded. "I suppose so, yeah." Their eyes met, and Zayn felt Liam's leg brush his under the table, thrilling when he didn't pull away. "I'll admit, I was never much into books growing up," Liam said, leaning back against his seat and taking a long drag. "I would much rather have been running, or swimming, or bicycling. Anything outdoors," Liam finished, smiling to himself. "What is it that you do?" Zayn asked, realizing that he had told Liam his profession, but he knew next to nothing about Liam. "I'm actually a writer as well, although with significantly less eloquence I'm sure" he said, taking a sip of the wine the waiter had brought and giving Zayn a wry smile. "I'm a sports writer for a newspaper," he explained, "Not where I thought I'd end up, but it pays the bills." Zayn noticed a tinge of something he couldn't name in Liam's tone. "Where did you think you'd end up?" he asked shyly, curious but not wanting to pry. "Oh, professional tennis or something of the sort I suppose. I used to compete quite a bit," Liam answered with an air of forced casualness, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out slowly. Zayn didn't miss the "used to" in Liam's answer. "Not anymore?" Zayn asked, taking in Liam's suddenly weary eyes. "Not anymore," Liam affirmed with a sigh, but didn't offer anything else. Liam's food then arrived and diffused the somewhat tense atmosphere that had arrived at Liam's revelation. 

They continued to chat long after Liam had finished his meal, talking and laughing quietly in their little corner. It felt very secluded, almost intimate, and the bottles of wine they finished had Zayn feeling bold and uninhibited once again. Conversation came easily, and Zayn wondered how he could have so much to talk about with someone who had been born almost a century before him. It was true that there were certain topics he had to leave out, like computers or television, but that didn't seem so important now, sitting close to Liam in their own little world. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten along so easily with someone he knew so little, but Liam's eyes were shining and they were laughing and Liam's hand found his way to Zayn's knee under the table. Liam suggested a walk when they left, and Zayn could only nod, smiling and lusty and a little bit tipsy. 

They walked along the Seine, and the way the moon was reflected in the water and Liam beside him, strong and warm, were almost too much for Zayn, the moment too heady. Liam moved closer, and his scent was one of smoke and cologne and it was the most intoxicating thing Zayn had ever smelled. They chatted more as they walked, until Liam stopped abruptly at Zayn's side and turning to face him. Zayn went to ask what was the matter when his eyes met Liam's, looking down at Zayn softly and halting the question on Zayn's lips. He leaned closer to Zayn and his breath caught, the way Liam was looking at him, standing so close, almost a silhouette in the moonlight. Zayn's eyes flickered to Liam's lips, soft and pink and close enough to touch. "I would very much like to kiss you, Zayn Malik," Liam said, and his voice was softer than Liam had ever heard it. Liam's hand traveled to Zayn's cheek and Zayn felt his eyes flutter closed at the touch. Zayn nodded, hoping that it was permission enough because he wasn't sure if he could say anything right then, if he trusted himself not to break the fragility of the moment. He could feel Liam's breath ghost across his face, a tantalizing moment of apprehension tightening his chest.

And then Liam's lips were on his, a light pressure that sent electricity down Zayn's spine. Liam's lips were soft and warm and chaste against Zayn's. His hand stroked Zayn's cheek softly, grazing gentle circles against his skin. Zayn didn't know if he could stand it, kissing Liam like this for much longer, and he moved his lips tentatively. Liam let out a small sigh and returned the kiss, pressing harder, moving gently. Liam brought his other hand to Zayn's face, now cupping it between his palms, and Zayn let his hands rest on Liam's waist, gripping the fabric his jacket lightly. It was almost overwhelming, kissing Liam with the moon above them and the river behind them and Liam's body against his, warm and close and certain. The separated after a few moments more, and Liam dropped his hands from Zayn's face, but left their foreheads pressed together. They were both breathing heavily, and Zayn couldn't help but smile up at Liam. They stood together like that until Zayn sighed, the lateness of the hour and the fact that he was still about 90 years away from home weighing on him. 

"I should get home," Zayn said quietly, sounding a bit sad even to himself. But Liam just nodded, and dropped his hand to link it with Zayns. "I'd like to see you again," he breathed, bringing Zayn's hand to his mouth and kissing it softly. "I'd like that as well," Zayn said with a smile, both of their voices hushed. After a few more goodbyes, Zayn left Liam standing by the edge of the river as he walked home. He turned around only once, and saw Liam silhouetted against the moonlight, his figure tall and broad in the darkness. It sent a happy shiver down his spine, and he smiled to himself as he walked. Somewhere between the river and his apartment, 1923 faded away, replaced by the Paris Zayn was used to. He barely noticed, still reeling from the kiss, from the way Liam looked and sounded and felt. His head was full of Liam as he walked home, a tingle in his fingertips and a smile on his lips.


End file.
